Birthday Wishes
by Wordsplat
Summary: On Peter's seventh birthday, Tony is sent to the hospital and Peter says something he immediately regrets. Oneshot, TonyxSteve, superfamily


The morning of Peter's seventh birthday, the Avengers received a minor call. Tony, Natasha and Clint suited up and dealt with it; they wouldn't have been much help preparing Peter's party anyway. Natasha wasn't a party person, Clint would cause more trouble than he was worth, and Tony would just distract Steve while he tried to finish the last couple items on the to-do list. He waved Tony out with no more than a peck on the faceplate and a cheeky "good riddance".

An hour later, he found himself heartsick over it.

Tony was shot down with EMP they hadn't been expecting, sending the suit down for a crash-landing. He was relatively okay, the usual scrapes and bruises, though he'd taken a bad hit to the head and they wanted to do a number of tests before they cleared him.

Steve debated bringing Peter with him, but Tony could be out in an hour and they'd be back at the party before Peter even noticed. Peter didn't even know Tony had gone to a fight; they tried not to tell him about their battles unless absolutely necessary. Aside from potentially glorifying the idea of violence to solve problems, there was no reason to worry Peter unnecessarily. So Steve just told Peter he was going to go pick up Daddy, then left for the hospital.

Two hours later, and they were still stuck in the hospital.

He and Tony were in the middle of an argument. Tony kept insisting he was fine, that they should just go to the party and enjoy themselves, he'd had plenty of concussions before. Steve, of course, quite rationally thought that Tony was insane for even suggesting they leave before the doctors cleared him after a crash like that. It was a half-hearted argument at best though, partially because they'd had the same one a thousand times, partially because they both knew Tony wasn't going anywhere, and mostly because neither of them were particularly good at staying upset when one of them was hurt.

In the middle of Tony's fifth complaint about the itchy sheets, he got a call from Peter.

"Dad?"

"Hey, Petey," Tony coughed, clearing his throat, trying to sound better than he was.

"Are you guys coming? My friends are gonna be here soon, and you said you'd show them the armor."

"I'm sorry bud, I just, I have this thing I've got to take care of," Tony glanced over at Steve, who was edging out the door. Steve was making a gesture to the door, mouthing 'restroom, be right back', and Tony waved him on, busy with Peter. He didn't want to worry the boy, and besides, he should be out in no time, might even make it in time for cake, "There's nowhere else I'd rather be right now, trust me, I'm sorry but-"

"No you're not!" then Peter was shouting over the phone, stunning Tony into silence, "You've been gone for hours! I bet you don't even care that it's my birthday!"

"Peter, how can you say that? Of course I care that it's your birthday," Tony bit his lip, heart aching that Peter thought that, "I promise, I meant to be there, and I will soon, I just-"

"You're just busy," Peter muttered, "I know! You don't have time for me, I get it. Whatever. I wish I had a dad that cared."

Peter hung up on him, but Tony wasn't listening. He couldn't hear the dead line, couldn't hear Steve calling his name, couldn't hear anything except Peter's words, echoing.

_I wish I had a dad that cared._

How many times had he thought that? How many times had he wished his own father would come home early? Would put down the bottle and play with him? Would come to his birthday party? Sure, Tony wasn't off in France and he hadn't left Peter with only a housekeeper to wish him happy birthday, but did that _matter? _His intentions didn't matter. Actions mattered. Making his son feel loved and cared for mattered.

_I wish I had a dad that cared._

And he'd failed.

He'd told Steve. He'd told him, so many years ago now, back in the very beginning. He told Steve he would make a shitty dad. Told him that he'd fuck it up like he fucked everything up, that he'd fail and let the kid down. Steve told him it was all in his head, that he'd be a wonderful father to any child lucky enough to have him. That they'd make it work.

_I wish I had a dad that cared._

And he had tried so, so hard. Harder than he'd ever tried at anything. Tried to strike the balance between doting and responsible, tried to do the right thing, tried to put Peter above everything else in his life. He thought he'd managed. He and Steve were busy, yes, but they always made time for Peter.

Rarely, now, were they both required on missions, and when they were, they had four live-in babysitters Peter adored, plus Coulson and Pepper and Rhodey and even Hill as backups should the world be in the middle of ending and all six superheroes be needed. Peter had never been left alone or abandoned.

They both had other responsibilities, who didn't, but they had determined a long, long time ago that Peter came before all of them. They planned their days around him, scheduled things so that Peter was only ever left with someone that wasn't them in saving-the-world scenarios, or occasionally a date night here and there.

Tony had always made a conscious effort not to disappear into the lab like his father had. If he needed to, he needed to, but he'd do it once Peter was asleep for the night, or off at school. And if he was just messing around, then he included Peter, taught him how to fix things and build tiny robots and show him the wonders of science.

Peter was Tony's _world._

_I wish I had a dad that cared._

Peter was Tony's world, and he'd failed him.

* * *

Peter felt bad. He hadn't meant to say it, it'd just slipped out. He knew Dad was an important guy and that he had all sorts of grown-up responsibilities. He knew Dad cared about him. He knew what he'd said wasn't true. He just…he thought maybe if he made him mad, then he'd come home. Sure, he'd probably yell at Peter for saying that, but at least he'd be there.

Then Papa called.

"He _what?"_

Uncle Bruce had picked up, and Peter frowned, listening in on the phone call from around the hall. Was Dad coming home now?

"No…I'm sure he'll…he's a fighter, Steve, he'll be okay, he always is…no, I didn't hear what they talked about, he was in another room. Hold on, I'll get him for you."

Then Uncle Bruce passed off the phone, and Papa was talking to him.

"Peter, honey, I need you to tell me what you and Daddy talked about, okay?"

Peter swallowed, anxiety and fear curling in his chest. He knew Pop's worried voice, and he may have been a kid but he wasn't stupid; something was wrong.

"No," Peter mumbled, "I…I can't."

"Peter, please, it's important. Did you tell him anything different or unusual?"

"What happened to Dad?"

"Honey, I need you to answer me-"

"Where's Dad?"

"…" Pop hesitated, then, "He's in the hospital. He, Uncle Clint and Aunt Nat fought a couple of bad guys this morning. I'm with him now, and he's just…it's been a bit of a rough morning for him. When I left, he was awake and talking to you, and when I came back he was, um, he was sleeping, and I just need to know what you two talked about, okay?"

Peter took a minute to absorb that. Dad was in the hospital, and he'd yelled at him. Told him he wished for a better Dad, because his was too busy _saving the world. _

"Papa," Peter whimpered, "I did something real bad."

"Oh, baby, whatever you said, your father loves you more than you can even imagine-"

"No, no," Peter felt the tears pricking at his eyes, "_Real _bad. You gotta wake him up, I need to talk to him, please, I gotta say I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I didn't!"

"Peter, sweetheart, your father knows that, he does. But I need to know what you told him, can you tell me?"

"No, I gotta tell him I'm sorry!"

"Baby…that's not possible right now," Pop's voice was soft, careful, "Your Daddy's in a…he's, he needs his rest, Peter, but I'm sure he knows, he knows you love him very much-"

"I told him I wanted a Dad that cared about me," Peter whispered, but Pop's super-hearing didn't miss a beat.

The silence on the other end told him as much.

"Oh, baby," Pop sighed at last, a pained sound that told Peter everything he needed to hear.

"Does Daddy hate me now?"

"Your Daddy still loves you, baby, and he always will," Pop's voice was firm, if a bit tired, "And he knows you love him, too. Daddies and their kids fight sometimes, these things happen. You can stay until your party's over if you want to, but I'm afraid I'm going to need to-"

"No, no, I have to see Daddy," Peter insisted, and that was that.

The party was ended early, and Peter was taken to to the hospital. Peter brought a slice of birthday cake with him for when Dad woke up as an apology, but when they arrived, he learned that Dad wasn't sleeping. He was in a coma, and as much as Pop tried to say that it was like sleeping, that Dad was still going to be just fine, Peter didn't want to listen. He crawled into the cot, curled up next to his Daddy, and refused to leave.

He talked for hours and hours, told him that he was the best Daddy anyone could ever ask for, that he hadn't meant what he said, that he loved him more than anyone, and that he was sorry, that he was really, really sorry.

Daddy still didn't wake up.

* * *

Steve left the room to stretch his legs for maybe a minute and a half. When he returned, there was a nurse trying to pick Peter up off Tony's cot. He didn't react perhaps as well as he should have; in retrospect, of course, she'd just been doing her job.

At the time, Steve leveled her with a look and told her she'd best leave his son be.

The thing was, Steve had been there. He'd been there so many times it was painful to think about. His and Tony's professions were necessary for public good, but breathtakingly dangerous. He couldn't count the times it had been him or Tony clinging to each other's bedside, the ones who'd mistakenly said the wrong thing and had that deep, terrifying thought that it might have been the last thing they'd said to each other.

He could remember plenty of times he'd woken up in the hospital with Tony's arms around him, could remember even more clearly the many times he'd squeezed himself into a cot with Tony, holding him close and safe, waiting desperately for any sign of recovery. Times like that, he took comfort in anything at all, even just the gentle rise and fall of Tony's chest, and he wasn't going to deny Peter that same comfort.

Peter ended up spending all day and night in Tony's bed. Steve brought him books, which he read aloud to Tony in a way that would have been adorable if it hadn't also been utterly heart-breaking. Steve eventually fell asleep sometime around ten, hunched over Tony's bed, arm stretched over both Peter and Tony's sleeping forms in a way that was uncomfortable but entirely worth the peace of mind.

He thought Peter had fallen asleep as well, but at 11:08 Peter was poking him awake, gestured to the bedside clock.

"C'mon, Pop," he insisted, "You gotta wake up, it's almost time, you gotta get the matches!"

Steve blinked, bleary eyed and confused for a minute, before he remembered what Peter had mentioned earlier, something about double wishing power and blowing out a candle.

"Does it have to be now, Pete? You can do your birthday wish tomorrow, we'll even-"

"No!" Peter protested, startlingly loud for the hour, and Steve almost reprimanded him until he saw the tears in Peter's eyes, "It's gotta be on my birthday or it's not a birthday wish!"

"Peter, sweetheart, it's just a wish, you'll get plenty more-" Steve sat up, moving to comfort Peter.

"But Daddy _needs _this one!" Peter insisted shrilly, shoving him away.

Just like that, Steve realized why Peter was so desperate. He quickly dug the matches out of the drawer, handing Peter the neglected piece of cake off the bedside table before striking one and lighting the lone candle.

"Make it count, Pete," Steve smiled softly, casting a look at his husband's fatigued face. _Please, let it count._

Peter waited, then, the second the clock clicked over to 11:11, he squeezed his eyes tight, pursed his lips, and blew out the candle.

Steve wasn't embarrassed to admit he held his breath.

Tony breathing stayed soft and even, but he didn't so much as flutter an eyelash or twitch a fingertip. Steve let his breath out, not surprised, but still somehow disappointed. Peter seemed devastated, shoving the plate back into Steve's hands and curling back into Tony. After a moment, soft sobs could be heard from his little boy, and Steve gently rubbed Peter's back while he cried.

It was a long night, but waking up to Peter's ear-splitting shriek of _Daddy! _was entirely worth it.


End file.
